


Heartstone

by Sabulana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:37:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabulana/pseuds/Sabulana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A heartstone is a very personal thing. They're meant ot be kept close, guarded, treasured until you meet someone worthy of giving it to. Sherlock has ignored his since childhood, not willing to admit he has one much less give it away until something happens to make him reconsider.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartstone

**Author's Note:**

> First, an apology for this badly thought-out AU idea. I have no idea. Inspiration for this came from a couple of fics I read in which either John or Sherlock were given a human heart as a Valentine’s Day present. Taking the idea of giving your heart away somewhat too literally. And then heartstones. Physical representations of one’s heart. My apologies if it doesn’t make sense but once I started writing, I could not stop. When I began writing, I have a half-formed idea that this would be slash but since finishing it, I'm longer sure. It's up to the reader, I guess.
> 
> Also, I've read this through three times editing and proof-reading it. Any errors, spelling mistakes and plot holes are mine and mine alone. This is my first time posting anything in the Sherlock fandom so please do let me have all your concrit. Sabby out. Enjoy the fic.

When Sherlock was still a small child of about six or seven, he witnessed his mother's heart breaking. His father had committed adultery, betraying them all. Sherlock, having sneaked out of bed late one night, witnessed the moment his mother's heartstone shattered. It was a beautiful thing, deep red and polished but his father took it and threw it on the floor before walking out on them forever. The heartstone shattered into tiny fragments, unfixable but at that age, Sherlock did not realise that. He came out from behind the door as his mother wept, wanting to run to her but too unsure of himself to try it. She looked at him, sobbing and shouted for him to get out, to leave her alone.

Startled by his mother's reaction and hurt by her rejection, Sherlock fled back to his room. He hid under the covers and stayed there until morning, wide awake. As he lay awake that night, he swore he would never ever give his heart away to anyone.

The next day, he took his heartstone - small, still child-sized and clear like a flawless diamond - and hid it where he was sure no one would find it. He never wanted to see it again.

His brother noticed, of course, and asked him where he hid it but Sherlock would not tell. Mycroft would find it and make him keep it with him at all times, like people were supposed to do. A heart was a precious thing, after all. Most people kept theirs in cases or pouches, in a pocket or on a pendant. Some preferred to keep their heartstone in a special place at home - a box on the mantle or a display case with their partner's heartstone. The only time it was acceptable to part with one's own heartstone was when giving it to someone special, who you loved totally and completely. Often, people waited until their wedding day to exchange heartstones along with rings. Hiding it, never touching it or looking at it but keeping it entirely separate was simply not done. Sherlock found he didn't care about that after a while.

Their mother never recovered from her heartbreak. She kept the shards in a box under lock and key but she was but a shell of her old self. Every day Sherlock saw her, he swore that no one would ever get his heart. It would stay hidden for the rest of his life. No one would find it and he would not give it to anyone ever.

Despite this, he took it with him when he left home for good. He did not want to risk Mycroft finding it and trying to give it back to him. Sherlock rarely ever looked at it anymore except to note, as he moved it from one hiding place to another, that it was no longer crystal clear. It had become cloudy and dull. It was mildly interesting, but not important. The heartstone went back in its box and Sherlock stashed it away again. The information was stored in his mind palace, never deleted but neither did he ever think of it. There was never any need to.

His apparent lack of a heartstone did not go unnoticed. Lestrade tried to ask him about it when they first met, wondering if that was a contributing factor of his drug abuse. Sherlock scoffed at him but would not answer any questions. Anderson and Donovan used it as yet more fuel for their mutual dislike of the consulting detective. Sherlock ignored their jibes. He had no need for a heart.

John was the only person who had not continually asked him about his heartstone. It had been brought up once, in an awkward conversation at Angelo's. John had noticed he did not seem to carry one with him and asked why not.

"I consider myself married to my work. As such, I have no need for a heart," Sherlock replied.

John frowned briefly but did not press the issue. Shortly after that, they were running across London, chasing a black cab. 

"He doesn't have a heart, you know," Sally Donovan told John one day.

They were investigating another serial killer. Sherlock was examining the body, making his deductions while everyone else stood back and watched. Donovan had sidled over to John, clearly not happy with the situation. 

"I heard a rumour that he never had one. That one never formed when he was a child and that's why he's such a freak," she said.

John gave her a cold look. "But that is, as you said, just a rumour. Personally, I think it's none of your business what Sherlock does with his heartstone."

"But there's something not right about him not having a heart of his own," she protested.

"That is Sherlock's business, not ours," John told her firmly. "In any case, I don't think it's any worse than sleeping with someone who already swore his heart to someone else." With that, John left Donovan standing on the sidelines and went to join Sherlock by the corpse. 

The detective looked up at him with something akin to surprise and gratitude. John smiled in response and shrugged. He thought nothing of defending Sherlock so Sherlock should not either.

Later, when they were alone, Sherlock whispered his thanks.

"It's nothing, Sherlock." He reached into his pocket and drew out his heart box. It was small, simple and wooden with a small brass catch that John flicked open. There was nothing inside, though it was lined with red felt. "I don't carry mine either but I prefer not to make it known."

"But you haven't hidden it," Sherlock said. "You don't carry it around so you've left it somewhere safe but it isn't hidden."

John shook his head. "No, I keep it close when we're in the flat."

"And you don't want to give it to anyone?" Sherlock asked. He was unsure why he was asking since he had so little regard for his own heart but it was rare that he would find anyone who would admit to not taking their heart everywhere with them when they had no one else to give it to.

"I don't want to give it to the wrong person. It's a big decision, letting someone else have your heart. I don't let just anyone even look at it," John replied.

"But if they wanted to..?"

"If they wanted to and I trusted them, then... yeah, they could look if they wanted," John said. He furrowed his brow slightly. "Why are you asking? Do you want to see it?"

Sherlock looked away, shaking his head. "No, I am simply curious. Hearts do not matter to me, John. You know that."

"...Yeah, I know."

Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eye, wondering at the apparent disappointment the army doctor was doing his utmost to hide. Did he want to show Sherlock his heart? It seemed to be important to John, else he would not treat his heart that way. While others wore theirs freely, or carried them visibly, John took pains to appear as though he did while keeping his heart safely at home. Yet his offer to show Sherlock and the multitude of dates he went on made it appear as though he wanted others to see it, perhaps even try to claim it. It was quite contradictory. A puzzle to be worked out.

Sherlock smiled to himself.

XxXxX

John sat in the middle of his bed with a small wooden box. It was undecorated and looked like any other keepsake box except for the small lock on the front. There was only one key, which he kept on him at all times - not that that would stop Sherlock if he wanted to see inside. But then, Sherlock probably already knew what was inside and he had already expressed his disinterest in it.

Carefully, John unlocked the box and took out his heartstone. It was a little larger than his palm, a beautiful ruby red shot through with gold. He ran his fingers over the curves. He had long memorised his heartstone and wondered if perhaps he would ever be given the chance to memorise someone else's. It was a secret wish of his to find someone he could exchange heartstones with. It would mean he would never be alone again. He would have someone he could trust with everything and who trusted him equally as much in return. Not only that, he would be loved. 

Finding someone to trust them much was hard though. While he found plenty of attractive women, none of them ever seemed _right_. Oh, they were nice enough but John found that simply being nice was not enough. That and they tended to get upset that he would drop everything the moment Sherlock texted him.

There were times when he wondered if he should just offer his heartstone to Sherlock, since it seemed no one else would stick around long enough but Sherlock was not interested in such things and John had no desire to make things awkward between them. 

"Playing with that thing again, John?"

Startled, John fumbled his heartstone and dropped it. It rolled to the edge of the bed, narrowly evading his attempts to catch it before it fell and broke on the floor. "Damn it, no-"

But then Sherlock was there, stepping forward swiftly to catch it just before it hit the floor. "Careful, John, you should..." Whatever Sherlock was going to say as he stood up went unsaid. He stared at the heartstone in his hand with an almost awed expression.

"It's... warmer than I thought it would be," he said quietly. He held it up to the light, watching the way the gold shone.

John watched in silence. He had no idea what to say. He should demand that Sherlock gave it back - touching another's heartstone without permission was taboo. But this was Sherlock and normal rules did not apply because Sherlock refused to let them. John knew the detective would not damage his heartstone and in a way, seeing the surprise on his face made the accident worth it. It wasn't often John got to see Sherlock look surprised. Torn between conflicting emotions, John could only remain silent, watching Sherlock carefully.

"...Mine is never this warm..." Sherlock whispered. He looked down at John and seemed to recover himself. "Here." He thrust it back at John, who took it without a word. Then he turned and walked away. He paused on the threshold of the bedroom for a moment. "...Take good care of it, John."

Then he was gone, going back downstairs to the living room. John sat, unmoving until he could hear Sherlock playing his violin downstairs. Well, perhaps torturing was a better word. John snorted softly as he put his heartstone carefully back in its box. The discordant notes didn't sound like any music John had ever heard.

Quietly, he padded downstairs. The music stopped as he reached the living room though Sherlock did not turn around.

"Thanks," John said quietly, though he chose not to mention it was Sherlock's fault he dropped his heartstone in the first place. "Tea?"

"Yes, tea would be... nice." Sherlock turned slightly. John smiled to let him know he was not upset about what had just happened and went into the kitchen to make tea.

XxXxX

For the first time in years, Sherlock gave his heartstone some serious thought. He looked at it rarely, only when he was moving it from place to place. Since moving into Baker Street, he had not looked at it once. It remained in its hiding place in the flat, ignored and for the most part, forgotten. Last time he had looked at it, it was a cloudy white colour and it had been cold – almost icy – to the touch. Sherlock had not thought anything of it at the time but seeing and touching John’s heartstone reminded him.

John’s heartstone had been so warm. It shouldn’t have surprised him – John was a warm person, after all. But his heartstone, the only other heartstone he had touched was cold. He had assumed they were all like that – cold crystals, like lifeless rocks except for how they changed as a person grew. But John’s had exuded warmth from within, far different to if he had simply been holding it for a while.

It was intriguing. Did other people’s heartstones do the same? Was his strange and unusual? It was a mystery he would love to solve but many people, though they would display theirs on a chain around their necks or something similar, would balk at letting someone touch it. There were few people Sherlock could ask that might even consider letting him look closely at their heartstones but letting him touch it was almost certainly out of the question.

But he would get nowhere if he did not at least ask. When John went out to the clinic the next day, Sherlock dashed down the stairs to see Mrs Hudson.

“Sherlock, what brings you down here?” she asked, a little bewildered but perfectly welcoming all the same. “Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, tea would be lovely, thank you,” he replied. He sat on her comfortable sofa for a moment while she disappeared into her kitchen. But he was too anxious to sit still. He jumped up and began pacing around the living room.

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson asked. She reappeared with a tea tray laden with a small tea pot, two cups and a plate of biscuits.

“Mrs Hudson, I have a request,” Sherlock began. “It is something… rather personal, I’m afraid. You probably won’t like it.”

Mrs Hudson sat down and gestured for Sherlock to do the same. “What is it, Sherlock? You can ask me anything, you know that.”

Though that did not necessarily mean she would say yes, Sherlock thought. He sat up straight, giving her a serious look.

“Mrs Hudson, I… would like to see your heartstone. And perhaps touch it, if I may?”

Mrs Hudson set her cup down with a clatter. “Sherlock!”

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, you know that!” Sherlock protested.

His landlady still did not look happy. She pursed her lips, taking in his serious, almost pleading look. “I suppose I should be grateful you’re asking instead of breaking into my flat to find it while I’m out,” she said. She had not carried her heartstone with her since the business with her husband in Florida.

Sherlock had considered that, of course, but to everyone else, heartstones were such a serious matter that he did not think Mrs Hudson would forgive him if she ever found out he had done such a thing. She might be able to tolerate body parts in the fridge, experiments on the kitchen table and his violin playing at all hours (albeit with much tutting in disapproval) but heartstones were much more personal than that.

“Mrs Hudson, please. You are one of only a few people I can ask,” Sherlock said, doing his best to appear sincere and trustworthy enough for her to agree.

“Why don’t you ask John?” asked Mrs Hudson. “I’m sure he would agree. He might not trust others easily but he trusts you, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, and I have seen it and now… I find myself… curious,” Sherlock admitted. “You know I normally don’t care about such things. I find them unnecessary except when I can use them to deduct information about others. I have no need for mine. But…”

“…I understand, dear. At least, I think I do.” Mrs Hudson patted his knee fondly. “Wait right here. I’ll go and get it.” She left the room and Sherlock heard her rummaging around in her bedroom. When she returned, she had a small black box with her.

“This is just for a few minutes, mind,” she said, handing the box to Sherlock.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” The detective took the box carefully and opened it.

Mrs Hudson’s heartstone was pale pink, almost like rose quartz but for the lines of pale green running through it. It was mostly transparent, allowing Sherlock to see the cracks in the centre - she had suffered heartbreak but had not let it break her completely, not like his mother. Once, perhaps, the cracks had been larger but over time, they had partially sealed again. The heartstone would never be flawless again but still it was beautiful. Sherlock cast Mrs Hudson a questioning look as he reached into the box to touch it. Mrs Hudson did not stop him so he lifted it out carefully, almost reverentially. The amount of trust she was showing him was incredible at this moment.

He was surprised to find it was warm to the touch, not as much as John’s had been. It was fainter but most definitely there. The warmth from John’s heartstone was like the heat radiating from a fire but Mrs Hudson’s was more like the heat one would feel from standing in the sun on a spring day – less intense, but comforting all the same.

Satisfied, he lowered it carefully into the box and returned it to Mrs Hudson’s waiting hands.

“Thank you very much, Mrs Hudson,” he said quietly. 

“Just remember, I wouldn’t allow just anyone to do that,” she said. “I’ve a lot of faith in you, my boy. I know you wouldn’t do anything to damage it.”

Sherlock flashed a grateful smile and drained his cup of tea. “It was… enlightening, Mrs Hudson. I cannot thank you enough.”

“We all have heartstones for a reason, Sherlock. Even you, though you keep saying you don’t need one. It’s not right that you ignore yours the way you do, I’ve always thought so. I’m just pleased you’re finally showing an interest in them,” replied Mrs Hudson. 

“Mrs Hudson, I have no need for mine,” Sherlock replied firmly. “But… I was interested to note how different John’s – and yours – is from mine.” He paused for a moment, wondering if he should tell her. Perhaps she could offer some insight into why his was cold, cloudy and had lost the shine it had once had when he was still a child. “Mine is… different, you see. It is cold. When I was younger, it was clear but when I last looked at it, months ago when I moved in here, it was cloudy and dull.”

Mrs Hudson was quiet for a moment. “I’m not an expert, Sherlock, and I can’t say for sure why yours is like that but mine has always been warm and I remember my mother’s being warm too, when she let me touch hers.”

Sherlock nodded and stored that bit of information away for later consideration. At the moment, he had other people to see. He ran upstairs for his coat and bid Mrs Hudson farewell on his way out.

His first stop was St. Barts to see Molly. She was sweet and would normally do anything for him. This was asking a lot of her and Sherlock could not be sure she would agree but he had to try. She looked surprised when he walked in, not expecting him since there were no interesting corpses currently in her morgue.

“Sherlock, hi. What are you doing here?” she asked. “I was just on my way to-“

“Molly, I have a favour to ask,” Sherlock said. “Into the lab – I trust you have no company?”

“No, well, no one living anyway,” she said, letting herself be shepherded into the laboratory. Whatever else she was going to do would have to wait.

“Good. Sit down,” Sherlock said. He waited until they were both perched on the laboratory stools before he made his request. “I want to see your heartstone.”

Molly blinked. “What? Sherlock, why? Is this for a case?” She looked confused. Never in all the time she had known the consulting detective had he shown any interest in heartstones, much less hers.

“No, there’s no case. This is… Please, Molly, it’s very important,” Sherlock replied. 

Molly bit her lip. It was clear to her that it was incredibly important to Sherlock though she didn’t know why. He looked so serious and he never liked asking for personal favours. 

“Okay…” She reached up to tug her heartstone pendant out of her jumper. It was small and looked delicate, encased in silver and hanging from a long chain around her neck. It was opaque lilac with patches of darker purple and a few lines of violet running across the surface. It fit neatly into the palm of her hand as she held it up to Sherlock.

He examined it as closely as he could without touching it, storing the data away with everything else he knew about Molly. It was intriguing, that he had never really registered how different heartstones were. Without thinking, he reached up to Molly’s heartstone and only realised what he was doing when she jerked away.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. “You can’t just go around touching people’s heartstones like that!”

Sherlock blinked, staring at his hand and then at Molly. “I’m terribly sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking,” he said, not sounding the least bit sincere. He jumped off his stool and began pacing backwards and forwards. “I just have to know one thing.” He stopped and spun to face the mortician. “Is it warm? And I don’t mean whatever heat it may have from being worn beneath your jumper all day. Does it give off its own heat?”

“Well, yes. I… I thought they all did? Not that I have much experience – most heartstones I come into contact with are cold and dead, like the people they belong to,” replied Molly. 

“Cold and… dead?”

“Yeah. I don’t like touching them but sometimes, they need cleaning before they’re… returned,” Molly said. She fidgeted awkwardly, not liking this topic of conversation. She wouldn’t talk about it at all if Sherlock wasn’t interested. Dead bodies, she had no problem with but touching the heartstone of a dead person always felt a bit wrong to her. Someone had once told her a heartstone was a physical representation of a person’s soul. If that was the case, it seemed wrong to handle something to utterly personal without permission, even if the person they belonged to was dead.

Sherlock did not pay any attention to Molly’s discomfort. He was turning over the new information in his mind, considering the implications and what it meant for him. If everyone else had a warm heartstone and his was cold…

If he could figure out why that was the case, then he could put this behind him. His heartstone was ultimately unimportant but he could not simply forget this new mystery before he had solved it.

“You’ve been most helpful, Molly,” he said distractedly. “Thank you.”

He swept out of the morgue, ignoring Molly’s response. Outside, he caught a cab to Scotland Yard. There was one more person he could ask, who might consider obliging him. At the very least, Lestrade could let Sherlock see his heartstone though he did not think he would be granted the privilege of touching it.

The detective inspector looked up in surprise when Sherlock burst into his office. Somewhere in the background, Donovan was voicing her protests but Sherlock ignored her completely. He shut the door behind him and sat down with a flourish in the seat opposite Lestrade’s desk.

“Sherlock, wasn’t expecting you. What’s happened?”

“I need your help with an investigation,” Sherlock said. “Nothing life or death but it is rather important.” He flashed a quick smile that was gone as quickly as it came.

“What do you need?” Lestrade asked. “And I hope it’s quick. I have work to do.”

“Oh, it will be very quick,” Sherlock assured him. “I need to see your heartstone.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “No.”

“No?”

“That’s what I said. No, you can’t see my heartstone.” Lestrade said easily.

“Why not?” Sherlock asked, almost pouting.

“Because I said so, that’s why. What do you want to see it for anyway? You keep telling me they’re unnecessary things anyway. Deadweight, I think you called it once.” 

Sherlock frowned. He had said that, hadn’t he? It had been during one rant after he had been asked too many times about his heartstone. He couldn’t deny it. Surely Lestrade could see this was important though?

“This is important, Lestrade. Very important,” Sherlock insisted.

“I’m not even going to consider it until you tell me why,” Lestrade said. “If you’re not going to explain, then you can get out and let me get on with my work.”

Sherlock huffed. “I am… curious. Mine is… very different to anyone else’s I’ve seen. It even… feels different.”

“Feels different? Sherlock, have you been going around touching other people’s hearts? You could get into a lot of trouble over that!” Lestrade exclaimed. “That- that’s-“

“Just John’s and Mrs Hudson’s,” Sherlock assured him. “I had permission – at least, from Mrs Hudson. Both of them were present when I touched them and neither of them were unduly upset. Molly showed me hers as well but declined permission to touch it.” He opted not to tell Lestrade exactly what had happened between him and Molly. It was better that the detective inspector believed he had asked and she had said no.

“And you want to see mine as well, to what? Compare it to yours? In what way is yours different to the others anyway?” Lestrade asked. He shifted in his seat, giving Sherlock his undivided attention.

“Essentially, yes,” Sherlock said. “I wish to compare. Mine is… well, I am sure you have heard me referred to as ‘cold-hearted’, yes?”

Lestrade nodded, then sighed. “So yours is cold and you want to find out if anyone else has one that is cold too?”

Sherlock looked away. Lestrade didn’t need his confirmation. He had figured out the problem on his own and now Sherlock just needed to know if he would agree to his request.

“…Fine. You can look, just this once.” Lestrade opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a simple wooden box. He wouldn’t take his heartstone to a crime scene but he would take it into his office and lock it in his drawer. 

Once, his wife had had it but he had reclaimed it after learning of her affairs. It would not be given away easily again and Sherlock knew he was asking a lot to look at it. Touching it was almost certainly out of the question but he still intended to ask.

Lestrade’s heartstone was silvery in appearance, not unlike haematite. Myriad cracks ran across the surface but they did not seem to extend as deep as the cracks in Mrs Hudson’s heart, Sherlock was interested to note. 

“I don’t suppose-“

“No, you can’t touch it,” Lestrade snapped. He closed the box with a snap and pulled it back towards himself. “Maybe… maybe another time. But… not now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared at him a moment longer, then sat back. “No, there will be no need. Thank you, Lestrade.”

He stood up to leave but Lestrade stopped him at the door.

“…It was cold, once. When she handed it back to me. It’s warming up again now but in that moment, when she returned it… It was cold. I don’t know if that helps at all.”

Sherlock turned back towards the suddenly vulnerable detective inspector. “It’s certainly something to think about.” His lips quirked into a brief smile and he left as suddenly as he arrived.

Shortly after the consulting detective had disappeared from sight, Donovan appeared in the doorway.

“Sir, what was all that about?”

“Nothing, Donovan. Get back to work,” Lestrade said, shutting his heartstone back in the drawer.

“He’s up to something, though, isn’t he?” she said.

“Back to work, Donovan,” Lestrade repeated more firmly.

The sergeant pressed her lips together unhappily but nodded and left. Lestrade sighed, turning back to his paperwork. He hoped Sherlock solved his little mystery soon – and that he would start paying more attention to his heart.

XxXxX

Sherlock was beginning to form several theories into the nature of heartstones. He turned them over in his mind during the cab ride back to Baker Street. Each one was individual. No doubt the colours, patterns and cracks, if there were any, would each mean something different to whomever they belonged to. 

But what about Sherlock’s heart? It had gone from clear when he was a child to a dull, cloudy colour as an adult. It had been so cold he had not liked touching it.

The cab pulled up outside Speedy’s café. It was early enough that John would not yet be back from his job at the clinic. Sherlock paid the driver and went up to the flat. After checking on several of his experiments, he sat on the sofa with John’s laptop to do some research into heartstones. There were many online articles about them, theories as to why they existed, the meanings of the colours and cracks but there was too much speculation and exceptions to supposed rules. Many debates centred around religious theories and the scientific arguments did not seem scientific enough. It seemed as though most people simply accepted heartstones without questioning them. It was very frustrating and none of it helped Sherlock personally.

With a sigh, he shut the laptop and went up to John’s room. He wanted to see the doctor’s heartstone again. It had started his entire dilemma and all day, he had been unable to keep his mind off it for long. Finding the box was easy but Sherlock hesitated before opening it.

Last night had been unintentional. John had made the offer to show Sherlock his heart but Sherlock had not taken him up on that offer. Walking in on John had been an accident, as had the circumstances that lead to Sherlock holding the heart. John had not been upset by it but it had still been incredibly personal. Intimate. The most intimate Sherlock had ever been with another person. 

Would he be as understanding if he knew Sherlock had touched it without permission? Sherlock did not want to start a fight with John. Still, the box tempted him. The lock would be easy to pick. He could unlock it, examine the heartstone to his heart’s content and put it back before John got home.

Except that it seemed far too much like betrayal. John left his heart at home when he knew Sherlock would be in all day and would have no interest in looking for it. The repercussions if he discovered Sherlock had invaded his privacy in such a way could be devastating to their friendship.

There was nothing for it but to wait until John came home and Sherlock could ask him in person.

Decision made, Sherlock took the box downstairs to wait for John to return. He set the box on the coffee table and reached for his phone. Texting John would bring him home faster, though there was less than two hours before his shift finished. Although he might be angry at being dragged out of work for something that was not an emergency. If John was upset, there was a greater chance of him saying no. Sherlock needed John to say yes, so he would need the doctor to be in a good mood.

By the time John came home, Sherlock had tidied up some of his more disgusting experiments that John had been complaining about. He had gone to the shop to stock up the fridge with milk – they had been running low and John would have had to fetch some more the next day anyway. He had also called the Chinese takeaway and ordered John’s favourite to be delivered shortly after John was due to arrive home. If that did not put John in a good mood, Sherlock would have to resort to far more drastic measures.

When John arrived home, Sherlock was lying on the sofa, pretending to read a magazine as he gauged John’s mood. He moved a little more slowly than usual so he was tired, nor was he particularly happy but he managed a smile so it was likely that his day had been rather uneventful but still somehow satisfying. Regular patients, regular problems that John had been able to help with.

“I bought milk,” Sherlock said in greeting.

John paused and frowned. “Why? Not that I’m complaining but you never buy the milk.”

“I felt like it,” Sherlock said. “And food will be arriving in about half an hour. Yes, I ordered enough for two,” he added in response to the question John was about to ask.

“I see…” John gave Sherlock a confused, slightly suspicious look but did not ask any more questions until he went into the kitchen to make tea. “You’ve moved your experiments. …Where did you move them to?”

“Do I have to have a reason for everything?” Sherlock asked innocently.

“Since it’s you, then yes. What’s going-“ John fell silent, coming back into the living room. His gaze fell on the coffee table and the box resting on it. “Sherlock, is that what I think it is?”

“If you think it is your heart box, then you would be correct,” Sherlock replied. He closed his magazine and tossed it to one side.

“What is it doing on the coffee table?” John asked stiffly. Sherlock could see he was trying to control his anger and sat up to explain himself properly.

“I wanted to see it again and touch it,” he said.

“So you thought you’d just… _take it_? I know you don’t have much regard for personal space but I can’t believe you’d go this far!” Furious, John stepped forward to reclaim his box.

Sherlock stopped him mid-stride. “No, John. I didn’t open it yet. I… I considered it but… I decided to wait until you came home to ask your permission.”

John stared at him sceptically. “Really?”

“Really. Look.” Sherlock handed him the box. “It’s still locked, there are no signs I tried to tamper with it in any way.”

John took it and looked it over carefully. He saw no signs that Sherlock had done anything but retrieve the box from its hiding place and bring it downstairs. “Is this why you’ve put away the experiments I didn’t like? Why you bought the milk and ordered takeaway?”

“Is it working?” asked Sherlock.

There was a moment of silence. John looked up at him, tapping the wooden box thoughtfully.

“I suppose I did offer to let you look at it the other day,” he said. “And you’ve already held it once…” He took a small key out of his pocket and unlocked the box. “Why are you so interested? I thought all that mattered to you was your brain.”

“That is still a puzzle I am trying to solve,” Sherlock admitted. 

John nodded as though understanding. He took his heartstone out of the box and handed it carefully to Sherlock. The consulting detective glanced at John’s face, looking for any uncertainty in his expression. There was nothing but absolute trust in his eyes. Stunned into silence, Sherlock took John’s heartstone, holding it as though it was the most precious thing in the world.

And truthfully, it was, wasn’t it? What would John Watson be without his heart?

Downstairs, the doorbell rang.

“That’ll be the food, I imagine,” John said.

“There’s cash in my jacket pocket,” Sherlock told him.

John nodded and grabbed it before dashing downstairs to pay the delivery boy. Sherlock blinked.

John had just left him holding his heart in their living room. No one had yet left Sherlock alone with their heartstone and yet John had done so without hesitation. He looked down at the red object in his hands, feeling the warmth emanating from it. John Watson really was surprisingly extraordinary in some ways.

The doctor came back up the stairs with a carrier bag of food. He stopped at the top of the stairs and smiled at Sherlock’s awestruck expression. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, clearly amused.

“You trust me that much, to leave me alone with your heartstone?” Sherlock sat down carefully, “Even after you thought I’d looked at it earlier?”

“You hadn’t opened the box and you waited until I came home rather than texting me with some made up emergency. You’ve put some effort into trying to make me happy – I assume so I would say yes – and, as I said, you have already seen and held it.” John went into the kitchen and began dividing the takeaway up, setting cartons on trays and making tea. “Is it really so hard to believe?”

Sherlock looked again at the heartstone in his hands. He could have sworn he felt it pulse warmly.

John came in with a tray that he set down in front of Sherlock. “Let’s eat.”

Sherlock set the heartstone down reluctantly in its box, though he left it open so he could look at it. They sat on the sofa together, eating Chinese takeaway while John flicked through television channels. Sherlock paid no attention to the television, focussed as he was on John’s heartstone.

“Are you going to explain this newfound fascination of yours then?” asked John.

Sherlock remained silent for so long, John began to think he wasn’t going to answer.

“I’ve ignored my heart. I want nothing to do with it. It is an unnecessary vulnerability, a ridiculous weakness. I’ve never understood why people attach so much importance to them. The last time I looked at mine was when we moved in here. I don’t want it but I can’t leave it behind when I move or I risk Mycroft finding it,” Sherlock began. 

John settled back on the sofa, listening quietly. Sherlock had never told him anything like this. He had no idea the detective’s heartstone was even in their flat. Since Sherlock attached so little importance to it, John had thought it would have been kept somewhere far away, maybe even left at his childhood home when he had first moved out. 

“When I saw it, all those months ago, it was …nothing like any others I’ve seen. Yours is full of colour and warmth. So is Mrs Hudson’s, and Molly’s and Lestrade’s. But mine…” Sherlock trailed off, recalling the awful cold of his heartstone.

“What about your heart?” John prompted gently.

“It’s cold. I hated touching it. It was cold and dull and… and _wrong_ in a way I can’t even explain.” Sherlock kicked the coffee table in frustration. “Why is it different, John? _Why?_ ”

John shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not an expert. Heartstones rarely come into a diagnosis, you know. They don’t indicate a person’s health,” John pointed out. “Maybe you should see an expert if you’re worried?”

“No, I’m not going to any _experts_.” Sherlock spat the word like it was filthy. “Mycroft would find out. I’d never hear the end of it.”

“So what are you going to do?”

There was another long pause.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock admitted at last. “I have exhausted my list of people who would let me examine their heartstones. There is only so much information I can gather from four people.”

“…Four?” John frowned, then replayed Sherlock’s list of people he had mentioned. “…You didn’t ask Mycroft then?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock scoffed. “He would never let me live it down, not after I protested for so long against acknowledging my own.”

“He could offer you better insight than I can,” John pointed out. 

“I am _not_ going to Mycroft for help!” Sherlock snapped. “You should know better than to suggest something like that, John.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re right. Forget I ever mentioned it,” John said, turning back to the television. 

They spent the rest of the night in companionable silence. John left his heartstone on the coffee table until he went up to bed, at which point he locked the box again and put it back in its hiding place. Sherlock stayed up until the early hours, contemplating the variations in heartstones and playing his violin when his thoughts began to go in circles. 

XxXxX

Sherlock was still thinking absorbed in thoughts of heartstones when John went out to work the next day but he had begun making notes on John’s laptop. He was comparing each heartstone he had been shown when it occurred to him that he should probably fetch his in order to make a more accurate comparison to his own. It had been some time since he had last seen it and as he had deemed it unimportant, he had deleted much information pertaining to it.

Before he could get up to get it however, the doorbell rang. Sherlock listened as Mrs Hudson answered it and scowled as he realised Mycroft had come to visit. He shut down the laptop and reached for his violin.

“I hear you’ve been taking an interest in heartstones at last, little brother.”

Sherlock scowled. Mycroft looked unbearably smug.

“I know there are few who would let you take a close look at theirs, and fewer still who would let you touch them,” the elder Holmes continued, taking a seat.

“It’s none of your business,” Sherlock replied, playing a harsh note on the violin.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft sighed. His younger brother could be so very tiresome. He knew already, of course, that Sherlock would never ask to see his heartstone. For that reason, Mycroft had brought it with him. He took out a rather ornate box and unlocked it, setting it on the table. “For your research, Sherlock. I would like you to find whatever answers you seek.”

Sherlock glared a moment longer, unmoving. Then he set the violin down and grabbed the box in a flurry of motion.

The heartstone nestled inside the box was crystalline blue, speckled with tiny points of other colours. Silvery strands ran through it and over the surface. Sherlock raised a hand to lift it out of the box, then hesitated and shot a questioning look at Mycroft.

His brother smiled and nodded encouragingly. Sherlock twisted his lips in displeasure but he lifted it out of the box regardless. He ran his fingers over the smooth surface, tracing the silvery web. It was warm, almost as warm as John’s. 

“I thought I should let you see it now, while it is still in my possession,” Mycroft commented, playing with his umbrella nonchalantly.

Sherlock lowered the heartstone and box. He narrowed his eyes at Mycroft.

“Who?”

He looked over Mycroft for signs that he was in a relationship. He’d _thought_ his brother seemed somewhat happier lately but had put it down to the current diet actually working. Mycroft had managed to keep his weight down for a while, though that had not actually stopped Sherlock from mercilessly ribbing him about it. But now it seemed that Mycroft had been able to keep to his diet due to sufficient motivation – wishing to look good for a significant other. A very significant other if Mycroft was considering giving his heartstone to them.

“…I would rather not say,” Mycroft answered.

Insecure, then. Not sure his offering would be accepted. Sherlock frowned. Also worried about what Sherlock would say. Mycroft didn’t even seem to be trying to hide that much. Just the identity of his partner.

Sherlock dropped his gaze to the heartstone in his lap. He had never understood why his brother had kept his. 

"I thought caring was not an advantage?" the younger Holmes snarked.

"But it is perhaps inevitable." Mycroft's smile was more like a grimace. He hadn't meant to let anyone get so close. He cared for Sherlock, of course, but they were brothers. This was an unexpected development and the decision to give away his heart was harder for him than for others. It meant he was acknowledging how much another meant to him, had accepted it and was willing to make himself vulnerable by declaring it, offering his heart to another with no guarantee that it would be accepted, the offer made in return.

All of that, Sherlock could read in Mycroft's expressions, his posture. He wondered if he could ever do that, offer his heartstone to someone and make himself so vulnerable. 

But that was why he had hidden his, wasn't it? So that he would never make the same mistake his mother had. Her heartstone had been shattered by his father's betrayal. There was a chance the same thing would happen to Mycroft and yet... his older brother was still willing to risk it.

Whoever had managed to capture his attention must truly be special. For a brief moment, Sherlock considered Mycroft's assistant, Anthea or whatever name she was going by now but was not convinced it was her. 

Sherlock carefully placed the heartstone back in its box. He closed it and handed it back to his brother. Mycroft tucked it back into his jacket and stood to leave. 

"If I am... successful..." he began.

"I am sure I will find out soon enough," Sherlock interuppted. He waved Mycroft away as though he was no longer interested. 

Sherlock played a short melody on his violin as Mycroft walked away. He paused when his brother reached the door.

“…Good luck,” he offered quietly, resolutely not looking at Mycroft.

Mycroft said nothing, pausing only a moment to look back at Sherlock to determine whether he meant it or not. Sherlock pretended to retune the violin until Mycroft finally left. Upon hearing the door downstairs shut, he threw himself on to the sofa to think.

He remained there until John returned from work. He had not expected Mycroft to ever consider giving his heart away to anyone. Whoever had tempted his brother into having such a weakness and making himself so vulnerable had to be quite remarkable. At least, Mycroft must think so. Would Sherlock think the same upon meeting this other person? This was, of course, assuming that this person realised how much this gesture would mean to Mycroft and accepted it. 

Quite without meaning to, Sherlock began to wonder if he would ever meet anyone who he would want to give his heartstone to. Was there anyone who would accept it? It was cold, wrong. Even Sherlock did not want it so why would anyone else? 

Sherlock was silent during John’s arrival and only murmured indistinctly when his flatmate asked if he wanted tea. John made him a cup anyway, putting it down on the coffee table and positioning it in just the right way that Sherlock could easily pick it up without moving from his position on the sofa. Sherlock had never even had to tell him to do that. It was something John had begun doing instinctively as he adjusted to living with Sherlock. It was one of those quietly thoughtful things that occasionally still took Sherlock by surprise.

John sat in his usual armchair, opening his laptop. Sherlock watched him in silence until the doctor looked over at him.

“…Busy day?” John asked, seeing the document Sherlock had previously been working on. He didn’t shut it down but emailed a copy to Sherlock. “Too busy to fetch your own laptop, I see.”

Sherlock smirked. “Perhaps.”

“So… did you figure out anything new about heartstones?” John asked, opening up his email.

“Mycroft is giving his heartstone away,” Sherlock replied. “Or, he plans to offer it to someone, at least,” he amended.

John froze. “Mycroft? Seriously? But… who? I didn’t even know he was that close to anyone. Or has he got something going on with his assistant, Anthea or whatever her name actually is and I just missed it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It is possible but I must admit I have no idea who my brother is that close to.”

“You have no idea?” John asked, teasing. “He must have hid it very well then.”

“Indeed, helped only by the fact that I do not care and was under the impression that Mycroft did not let anyone get close enough to care,” Sherlock replied. “Although this does explain why he has managed to stick to his diet for the last few months. He wishes to look good for his partner.”

John nodded, thinking back to the last few times he had seen Mycroft. The man had been looking somewhat happier lately, although that had often been soured by the arguments he had been having with Sherlock.

“So how did you find out about this?” he asked after a moment. 

“Mycroft told me. He paid a visit earlier and brought his heartstone. He learned somehow that I have been intrigued by them for the last few days and thought I should look at his too, before he gave it away,” explained Sherlock.

“I didn’t tell him,” John said immediately. “But I suppose it is nice that he would do that,” the doctor continued. “Especially since you wouldn’t ask him.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. “Perhaps.”

John huffed in amusement and let the conversation drop. They lapsed into companionable silence, John tapping at his laptop keys while Sherlock sipped his tea. It was peaceful and quiet, an unusual occurrence when Sherlock did not have a case to occupy his mind. Sherlock doubted he was capable of achieving this level of friendliness with anyone else. Really, there was only John…

Sherlock blinked at the ceiling, mouth opening in a silent ‘oh’.

There was only John. If there was anyone he would offer his heartstone to, if there was anyone who would accept it, it was John. John would take care of it in a way Sherlock never had. He was already aware that he cared about John but it was just hitting him now exactly how much he cared. Really, it was obvious now that he thought about it.

“Is everything okay?” John asked, looking concerned.

Sherlock looked back at him silently for a moment. Should he tell John of his realisation now?

“…Everything is fine, John.” Now was not the time, Sherlock decided. He gave a reassuring smile then turned his attention back to the ceiling. He still had not come to a conclusion about why his heartstone was different.

That night, Sherlock did not manage to figure out anything new about his heartstone. Rather irritatingly, he fell asleep on the sofa at some point during the night. He awoke the next morning to find his blanket draped over him and a warm cup of tea on the coffee table. John was puttering about in the kitchen making toast. The noises were familiar with him, as much a part of 221B as the walls were, as much a part of John as the jumpers and the contradictory desires for danger and normality. It was home and it was comfort and safety.

When John put down a plate of toast beside Sherlock’s tea, the detective accepted it without complaint. He sat up and ate it, ignoring the baffled look John was giving him.

“Are you… feeling okay?”

“Perfectly fine, John. Don’t worry about me,” Sherlock replied.

John gave him a long look but refrained from questioning him. The doctor sat down with his own breakfast and the newspaper at the table. Sherlock pretended not to notice that John kept looking over at him. He finished his toast and tea and even took the plate and cup into the kitchen, stepping on the coffee table on the way. He left the dirty dishes in the sink – can’t take away all of John’s household chores now, can we? – and returned to the living room for his violin.

“Did something happen?” asked John. “Did you figure something out about your heartstone?”

“No.” Sherlock didn’t explain himself, not when he was unsure how John would take the news that he was the only one who could possibly be worthy of being gifted with Sherlock’s heartstone. He busied himself with his violin, playing a few odd notes until they blended together into a peaceful melody.

John sat back in his chair to listen. Sherlock watched out of the corner of his eye as the doctor relaxed, smiling faintly as the music washed over him.

In that moment, Sherlock made his mind up. Regardless of what happened, of how John would react or what people would say, Sherlock would give him his heartstone. He just needed the right moment.

XxXxX

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, examining something under a microscope. He did not look up as John came in but muttered a greeting. John smiled to himself though he was still somewhat worried. It was strange for Sherlock’s mood between cases to be this peaceful.

He sat down in his armchair and reached for his laptop to check his email. There was a safety deposit box on top of it that he had never seen before.

“Sherlock, what’s this?” he asked, picking it up carefully.

The detective glanced over. “It’s a safety deposit box. Really, John, I thought you were much more observant than that.” His lips quirked into a smirk for a moment before he turned his attention back to the microscope. He switched slides around and refocused the lens.

“I know, Sherlock. What’s it doing on my laptop?” John sighed.

“Oh. It’s for you. Rather, what it contains is for you,” Sherlock replied, not looking up this time. “The key should be next to it.”

John checked his laptop again and saw the key. He frowned, uncertain. Why would Sherlock be giving him anything? What would he be giving him? John hoped it was not going to be a random body part or something equally gruesome.

Tentatively, he opened the box.

“Oh. Oh, _Sherlock_.”

Sherlock froze at the sound of John’s voice. For a moment, he worried his gift would be rejected but suddenly realised that it was not disgust in John’s voice but wonder, amazement. Confused, Sherlock looked over at him.

John brought the heartstone out of the box. It was nothing like Sherlock had described, like it had been when he had last seen it. Sherlock had not bothered looking at it when he had brought it out of its hiding place.

It was no longer dull but it appeared polished. The cloudiness within the heartstone had softened into white with flecks of other colours, primarily red and silver but there were tiny points of blue, green, purple and gold. John held it up, examining it carefully.

“Sherlock, this is- it is yours, right?”

Sherlock nodded, not daring to speak just yet.

“I thought you said it was cold,” John said.

“It… it was. It didn’t look like that before.” Sherlock was baffled. His heartstone had changed. That was unprecedented in someone of his age. Children usually had clear heartstones that altered during puberty, between the ages of thirteen and twenty. “I didn’t look at it when I decided it was yours.”

John lowered it back into the box. “Sherlock, what are you saying?”

“My heartstone. It’s yours. After evaluating everyone in my life, I have come to the realisation that you are the only possible recipient. You are the only one I trust with it,” Sherlock said. “Finding someone to give one’s heartstone to is supposedly one of the purposes of living. I have fulfilled that part of my purpose in meeting you. It doesn’t have to change anything between us and nor am I going to ask for yours in return. You’ll do a better job of taking care of it than I have so… I ask that you keep it. If you want.”

“I… I don’t know what to say…” John brushed his fingers over the heartstone’s smooth surface. “Of course I’ll keep it.”

Sherlock gave a miniscule sigh, barely noticeable except that John knew him well enough to be able to tell. He realised at that moment that Sherlock had been worried about how John might react, if he would reject the heartstone or not. John could never imagine rejecting something so precious though. 

The next day, John invested in a new heartstone box, big enough for two. He put both his and Sherlock’s in together.

“You’re the reason it changed,” Sherlock informed him when he came back downstairs. “It’s your influence on me.”

“Shift your feet,” John replied. 

Sherlock obliged, lifting his feet so John could sit on the sofa. John rested his laptop on Sherlock’s legs, tapping out an email to Harry. Peace reigned in the flat for approximately ten minutes before Sherlock sighed irritably.

“John, I’m bored.”


End file.
